Human Error
by TimeLordFrom221B
Summary: "What was it worth living for. What was it worth fighting for. It was too late. He had lost for what he lived anyway, had been on the losing side for too long. A human error. And death getting him just showed that he was human. It was easy. Dying. Letting life go."
1. Chapter 1

Hey guys, I hope you're all well :) I recently got bored and started writing a new fanfiction. It will be multi-chapter and I'll do my best to update as often as possible.

Probably you know this, but... always happy to see reviews! x

Warnings: Drug abuse, hurt, smut, I don't cover the costs of tissues you might need

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, otherwise Johnlock would be canonly canon already.

 _Silence had finally fallen over London. The big city seemed to be asleep, everything was so peaceful. At least for those who didn't see the battlefield. For those who had never seen the darkness of London, the coldness. For those who didn't see the broken ones. How lucky they were._

 _A tall man walked lonely through the streets while only his shadow was there to follow him along the pavement, the light of the moon and a lantern made his appearance seem mysterious, almost ghostly. Just as ghostly as the reflection of the light combined with his shadow on the water of the Thames River. The soft waves played with the picture, distorted it almost beautifully. It was as if his existence started to blur, as if the water tried to pull him down, to drown him. Wouldn't it be easy, just to let the cold water embrace him and wash away the pain. To let silence fall over him at last._

 _The night was calming, but also it laid sadness over him. He blew the smoke of a cigarette out of his lungs and wrapped his black coat tighter around his body. He didn't feel cold, he didn't feel anything at all except emptiness. What had made him complete, what had given him a life, a reason, was now gone. Had never been his. Never would be his. It was too late to fight now. What had been his everything was gone, had left him alone, and still it was there, in his mind. There were too many memories of times which were the past, which would never leave him. And maybe it was just this that destroyed the man now. Slowly, piece by piece._

 _He didn't live anymore. He just existed, going under in the crowd. There was no one to hear him, to see him. Because caring was not an advantage. It was a chemical defect that pushed him onto the losing side, a defect he had tried to avoid but couldn't._

 _Human error._

"John, I'm sure there's nothing to worry about", Mary sighed during breakfast. "Relax."

"I texted him, he didn't reply." Something had told John earlier that there was a reason to be worried about Sherlock. Furthermore, he hadn't seen him since the wedding, and Sherlock wasn't the type not to answer a text.

"Maybe he has a case going on", Mary said. Her words weren't able to convince John.

"You know Sherlock, he always answers. I'm going to visit him after breakfast."

John felt like he definitely needed to check on his friend. Urgently. Maybe it was also that he simply missed Sherlock. John hadn't mentioned it to Mary, but he had nightmares at night again. Since they had got married John had started to dream of war again, and sometimes there was Sherlock. When he had met Sherlock years ago, the nightmares had stopped. After Sherlock's faked suicide, there had been nightmares again – of Sherlock jumping from the rooftop of St Bart's. And now it was war another time, but between shots and deaths and explosions, there was Sherlock. Just smiling at him, taking him on a case.

Unconsciously, John knew exactly that he wasn't as happy as he wanted to be with Mary and that his life should be the life he could have with Sherlock. But consciously, John of course wouldn't admit this. Wouldn't admit that he wasn't happy, that he had nightmares again, that he missed Sherlock. But could he go back to that life just like that? It was too late now. Sadly, John had made a wrong decision and it would be difficult to change the situation. John just tried to get along with it now even if he didn't know what exactly he was doing there. Pretending that everything was fine. Lying to himself.

Although Mary had assured him for several times that Sherlock would be fine, John was on the underground towards Baker Street shortly after breakfast. With every minute the feeling that something was wrong with Sherlock worsened and if there was something John really hoped for at the moment, it was that his worries would be unwarranted.

When John turned his key in the lock of the well-known door of the house, a familiar and warm feeling crept through his body. Mrs Hudson apparently wasn't at home as there was no sign of her, so John immediately went upstairs to 221B. A smile formed on his lips. This was just home. Or at least had been. For many years.

Silence greeted him as he opened the door. The flat was enlightened by the sun shining softly through the window and as always there was a bit of dust swirling in the air. Nothing had changed. Somehow this still was more home than the house he had now with Mary. John had simply too many memories connecting him to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock, Mrs Hudson... They had been his family, still were important to him and always would be.

But where was Sherlock right now? John's first thought was that Sherlock actually might have gone out, but his coat was hanging on the door. So Sherlock had to be around as he never left the flat without his coat.

"Sherlock?", John asked loudly. At that time of day Sherlock never was asleep. If he didn't had a case, he normally was busy annoying everyone around him or blowing things up in the kitchen.

Still, there was nothing but silence. Frowning, John looked around until he finally caught sight of Sherlock's back on the sofa. And something was definitely wrong there.

It already hit John as he glanced at the small table while approaching Sherlock. This just couldn't be. It simply couldn't. Horror was written in the former soldier's face within a split of a second. John's hand almost automatically reached for Sherlock's shaking wrist to check for a pulse. Too fast. Racing. Definitely too fast for someone of perfect health. Too fast for someone alive.

Sherlock's hand was cold and pale, but his forehead glistened from sweat as John turned him carefully towards him. He didn't look human at all, dark circles were beneath his eyes and his skin was even paler than usually. This man was more a ghost than a living human, only a shadow of who this man actually was.

"John." It was a hoarse whisper coming from Sherlock's lips, he obviously had difficulties to move his lips, to move any part of his trembling body.

"John, I..." The detective seemed to try fixing his gaze on John, but before John had the chance to say something, to ask what had happened, to do something, Sherlock's eyes closed. Only pain was still visible in his face.

"No!", John shouted terrified, slightly slapping his best friend's cheek. Trying to wake him up again, trying to make him open his eyes again. He had seen a lot when he had served the army. Painful and violent deaths, injuries. But this, this was just too much. It was something he couldn't bear to watch, something he couldn't bear to let happen. He couldn't lose Sherlock another time.

"Sherlock, this is definitely not the right moment to ignore me!"


	2. Chapter 2

I decided to update earlier than I originally planned, hopefully making you happy with this decision.

A big thank you to readers, followers, reviewers! It means a lot to me and I hope you enjoy this chapter. More to follow soon xx

The passing minutes, the minutes of which every single one could be Sherlock's last minute, seemed like hours until the ambulance arrived at last. John wasn't able to feel anything, shock filled his whole body while he was forced to see his best friend so close to death. He had felt this once already. If it was too late, if Sherlock had closed his eyes forever already, there would be no encounter in a few years. Then this would mean the end.

Also the way to the hospital seemed endless. Somehow John had been able to give information about what had happened. One of the paramedics was talking to John, but the words were nothing but blurred sounds. The only thing John was fixed on was Sherlock. Lying there. Slowly dying. And John couldn't stop it. Couldn't do anything. Like when Sherlock had faked his suicide. John hadn't been able to stop it happen. He hadn't had the chance to help Sherlock because Sherlock hadn't let him. He hadn't been able to stop losing Sherlock and as it seemed, he was losing him again and again.

The army doctor knew well how it went on in hospitals. Necessary, but terrible for those who had to wait. He had to wait in the corridor while they were checking Sherlock. While they tried to save the detective.

Chairs in hospitals weren't comfortable. They never had been. John didn't mind. His sorrow grew with every minute and every time a doctor passed by, his head shot up alarmed in the hope that someone would tell him that Sherlock would be all right. After a while he was pacing through the corridor impatiently. They wouldn't need so long if there weren't complications... He wasn't able to go to another funeral. He wasn't able to lose Sherlock. He wasn't able to see him dead.

 _Heartbeat. Beat for beat._ _A_ _whole lifetime. Until it stopped. Suddenly, there was nothing. What was it worth living for. What was it worth fighting for. It was too late. He had lost for what he lived anyway, had been on the losing side for too long. A human error. And death getting him just showed that he was human._

 _It was easy. Dying. Letting life go. Just like falling asleep, except that one wouldn't wake up again, wouldn't feel again. The east wind was going to get him. Going with the wind was easy._

 _Why don't you just die. Heartbreak. Pain. Loss. Just let go of it. Forever. It's not difficult. Now you have the possibility to do so. Take it. Die._

 _Still there was something pulling him back, forcing him to go on. Forcing him to turn away from death and to fight against the east wind, to fight for a human error. Love._

 _John Watson needs you, Sherlock... Isn't life hateful? So full of dangers. He will grief, it will destroy him. And who knows who might target him next as it had happened so often. Who knows if he is targeted right now..._

 _Heartbeat._

"Doctor John Watson?" It had felt like eternity. Finally. It was horrible, waiting.

"Yes." John stood up, facing the doctor in front of him.

"My name is Dr Stafford and I'm responsible for Mr Sherlock Holmes. I'd like to talk to you in private about Mr Holmes." With that John was led into one of those small rooms. One of those rooms where doctors wanted to talk to people when it was really serious. It wasn't possible to get any information from a doctor's face. They were used to deliver bad news. John prepared himself for the worst when the doctor started talking as soon as they had sat down at a small desk.

"Since you are a doctor yourself, I think I can spare you with the usual talk, but I've still got some questions about Mr Holmes."

"Go on", John answered, slightly relieved. Questions meant that Sherlock lived. John's only question was Sherlock's current state.

"What is your relationship with him?"

For a moment, John had to think about it. "We were flatmates for a long time. We're pretty close, I guess." Too close, in fact.

"How much do you know about Mr Holmes' drug habit?", Dr Stafford asked.

"Not that much. I know that he was an addict before I met him, a time he doesn't talk about, but he's been clean for years. Had even stopped smoking. As long as I know him, he didn't take drugs." An addict. It was so strange to describe Sherlock as an _addict_ since John had never seen Sherlock as someone addicted to drugs and also never had made it a big issue.

"Any idea why he took drugs, then and now?"

John shook his head. "As I said, he never talks about it. And why he started again is also a question to myself. I haven't seen him for a few weeks, and... well. Here we are. In fact I hope that I can ask him sooner or later why he did it. Although I highly doubt that he'll answer. He is like that. You can't force him to talk about something."

Dr Stafford nodded. "He wouldn't be alive if you hadn't found him. I want to be honest with you about it. Mr Holmes had a cardiac arrest here, and he still is unstable."

These words made John swallow. Cardiac arrest. And this time, it wasn't a fake. He wished it was, though. One time feeling no pulse inside Sherlock's body had been enough. It was hard to concentrate now, but he wanted to know what else Dr Stafford had to say.

"At the moment it's hard to say when exactly he will wake up and I can't say how it will go on. How he will react and what would be the best for him. You surely know what I'm trying to say. We've also informed Mr Holmes' brother."

"Yeah. I know. All right."

"So if you want", Dr Stafford continued, "I can bring you to him now."

Of course John wanted to see Sherlock. Of course he wanted to be with him. When he stood in front of the door to Sherlock's room, he had to take a deep breath before opening the door and stepping into the room.

 _Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

Just a steady beeping, showing a finally steady heartbeat. John sat down on the chair next to Sherlock's bed. It was a sad sight, Sherlock being connected to several machines. Unable to live by himself. So weak, so helpless. Sherlock had never needed help, had never wanted help. Here he was lying now. Broken.

"Why have you done this to yourself?", John said quietly and carefully took Sherlock's hand into his, feeling the pulse. This pulse couldn't stop. It just couldn't.

"You're not going to leave me another time, are you? Not after all that we've been through."

Sherlock always answered. Now he didn't. It wasn't supposed to be like this. This was simply wrong. John even wouldn't be mad if Sherlock blew up the kitchen right now or shot holes into a wall. Sherlock being Sherlock was everything John wished for at the moment. Not this. Not Sherlock almost dying in a hospital. Why hadn't Sherlock let John help him before it had been too late.


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, I really hope that you like my fanfiction. Reviews are always lovely xx**

There was a knock at the door before it opened. It was Mycroft and John wasn't sure if he really wanted to talk to Mycroft, but he was Sherlock's brother and had the right to be here.

"Hello, John. How is he?"

"I don't know", John sighed. "Can't ask him at the moment, can I?"

"Would you mind having a talk with me?", Mycroft asked, placing a bag which contained probably clothes for Sherlock next to the bed.

"No, not at all", John lied. Yes, he would mind. Actually, he didn't want to talk to anyone at the moment which was the reason why he hadn't even contacted Mary. But he especially didn't want to talk to Mycroft because he knew exactly that the conversation would be about Sherlock. And it would be one of those conversations about Sherlock that John absolutely hated.

"Let's go down to the cafeteria", Mycroft suggested.

Yes, probably it was better not to discuss it in front of Sherlock. One never could be sure how much he noticed. So they went to the cafeteria, even if it was hard for John to leave Sherlock alone. After ordering coffee, they searched a quiet table in a corner.

"So, what do you want to talk about?" John knew that this question was more than unnecessary.

"My brother."

"All right. How can I help?"

"He has become quiet, John.", Mycroft started. "He doesn't talk much. He... takes drugs, as we can see."

John sighed. "Sherlock never talks much when it isn't one of his deductions."

"He talks even less then usually. Mrs Hudson is at her sister's, so he barely eats. He just... doesn't seem to care about himself. He does everything to stay away from everyone."

"What about Molly Hooper?", John asked. Sherlock had often asked Molly for help.

"It seems like Molly Hooper can't help him. I guess this isn't only about some corpses, but something really serious that he can't handle at all."

"Look, Mycroft", John said, "I don't know what is wrong with him. But if there was anything I could do to help him, I would do it."

"I've thought about it. Of course we could send him to rehab, but I think we both can tell that even a professional person couldn't help someone like Sherlock. He would escape into his isolation. One cannot force him to talk about his problems."

"Maybe not a good idea", John agreed. "So what then?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "There is one person in this world he absolutely trusts, John. I wouldn't ask you for this if I weren't worried about my little brother. But he shouldn't be alone and you are the only person he would let come near him."

"You mean I should go back to Baker Street." This conclusion seemed logical and it probably really was the best solution. "Okay, he... shouldn't be alone after getting out of here, you're right. Maybe he will talk to me."

"Thank you, John."

"I just should... get some clothes then. You know."

"There's a car outside. If you want, you can go now and pack what you need. They will bring you back here afterwards."

"Okay. Good." It didn't surprise John that Mycroft had already planned everything. Sometimes this man was worse than his little brother. So when John had finished his coffee, he went outside to the car. Then he could also tell Mary what had happened. She surely would understand why he needed to go back to Baker Street.

Mary wasn't at home. John couldn't remember her mentioning anything about going out today, but he had different sorrows and packed his stuff quickly. The whole time he wondered what Sherlock was doing. Probably nothing had changed at all, but John just couldn't calm down if he didn't see by himself what was going on. If he had to spend the next week sitting next to Sherlock's bed, he would do it.

On the car ride back to the hospital, John explained everything to Mary in a text message. Sure, he could call her, but he simply didn't want to talk. He wished he could talk to Sherlock, though. Sit with him in the living room of 221B Baker Street, wait for a case. Having the possibility to tell him to shut up. Instead, he was now preparing for some time in the hospital. Yes, it was slightly strange that Sherlock was always more important than his wife. Maybe it was because John knew Sherlock for a longer period of time.

Nothing about Sherlock's state had changed while John had been away. The only thing that happened was that John received an answer from Mary.

 **\- That's terrible! But now he is okay, isn't he? Hope he gets well soon xxx -**

John hadn't told her the whole truth, only that Sherlock was quite ill. Mary didn't need to know about the drugs.

After a while, it knocked at the door again. This time, it was Molly Hooper with some food.

"Hello John", she said, throwing a concerned look at Sherlock. "I knew I'd find you here, so I thought... I thought I'd bring you some food. In case that you're hungry."

"Thanks", John answered, forcing himself to smile. "How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. Can I, uhm, sit down?"

"Sure." John sighed. "Any chance that you know what happened?"

Molly shook her head. "Only a suspicion. It's better if you talk to him when he wakes up."

"A suspicion?" The ex-soldier looked at Molly.

"Yeah... Whatever. He became quiet since your wedding. How is Mary?"

"Mary is fine. Did Sherlock talk to you?" There was something Molly knew and didn't want to say.

"Not often", Molly replied. "He... hardly talks. Only about you... sometimes. Oh, I think I have to go. Work, you know. I hope Sherlock gets better soon." Jumping up, she smiled shyly and left.

"Well, that wasn't very helpful", John muttered and looked at Sherlock. "And you? Will you tell me what happened? "

But of course Sherlock didn't answer. This picture of Sherlock was so strange, so unfamiliar. To John it almost seemed like everyone around him knew exactly what was going on with Sherlock, why he had got into this situation.

 _Don't get involved. Caring is not an advantage._

 _No, it wasn't. Hadn't he always assumed love to be a dangerous disadvantage? Hadn't he even been proven right? Stupid, Sherlock. How stupid of you. You're always so stupid when it comes to sentiment. Doesn't it hurt enough to stop. Do you like the pain it causes you every day, every second? Do you like it, feeling all empty?_

 _You still can leave all of this behind you. You still have the chance to die. It will be quick. There won't be pain afterwards. No suffering. No broken heart. John would be broken, but you wouldn't feel it. It wouldn't matter to you. Just die and don't feel._

 _John would break from it.. He couldn't do that to him. He couldn't make John suffer because of him not being able to handle heartbreak.._

 _Sherlock..._

 _He couldn't die. John. He wouldn't die._

 _Sherlock, do you hear me..._

 _No. He would live. For John. The east wind could get him another time. Not now. John._


	4. Chapter 4

**Finding myself in times of difficulties when it comes to writing, I still hope that you like it.**

 **Reviews are always welcome x**

Suddenly everything had happened too fast. John didn't really realise what he was doing as he slammed his hand down onto the button to call a nurse and as he got a grip on Sherlock's shaking body, it was an automatic reaction. Sherlock's pulse had started racing again abruptly, without any sign that could have warned John.

"Sherlock!" John placed his hand carefully on Sherlock's cheek. Also his temperature had increased. "Sherlock, do you hear me?"

Sherlock was breathing unsteadily, still unconscious. Not reacting to John.

"You won't die, do you understand?!", John hissed. "You won't! You can't – "

John got pulled back from behind by a nurse, away from Sherlock, another nurse and a doctor stormed to Sherlock, and while the damn beeping representing Sherlock's heartbeat didn't even intend to slow down, John got dragged out of the room and carefully placed onto a chair. The nurse sat down on the chair next to him.

"Is there anything I can do for you?", she asked softly after a while.

John just shook his head slowly, staring at his hands in his lap with a blank expression. He wasn't the one who needed help.

"He will be fine. He won't die", the nurse continued.

"I couldn't bear seeing him dead", John said quietly at last. It was nothing but frustrating that everyone tried telling him that Sherlock would be fine. As if this wasn't the proof of the contrary. As if he hadn't seen people die although they had appeared to recover. He was an army doctor after all.

"You won't see him dead."

"How would you know?" When Sherlock had jumped off a rooftop, John hadn't expected it. When you fought in war, you could die in every moment. How would you know when you were going to die? It could happen at any given moment, and John had experienced this way too often.

"Never stop believing in him", the nurse answered. "He will live."

John didn't say anything. He had always believed in Sherlock. He always would.

The nurse sighed. "I hope it is okay if I say this, but... there is something you haven't told him and still want to say, isn't there?"

"Maybe", John said, not sure what to answer. After a while, Dr Stafford and the other nurse came out of the room.

"Try talking to him, Dr Watson", Dr Stafford said. "Maybe he will hear you. It might help."

With a nod, John went back to Sherlock, not being sure if talking would help Sherlock or himself, and sat down onto the chair, letting his gaze wander over the detective. It was just an outburst of all the feelings John had been holding back and which now were released at once as a tear rolled over John's cheek as he saw Sherlock sleeping so peacefully and yet so vulnerable.

"Why, Sherlock. Why", he whispered slowly and pressed his lips together, taking Sherlock's hand gently. "I just don't understand. You could have called me, you could have talked to me. I'd be there, always. And I really thought you would know this, you always know everything."

He would have been there for Sherlock. A call would have been enough. John would have helped him, or maybe he just should have looked sooner after Sherlock. Maybe John was responsible for it, somehow. Maybe he could have stopped it before it had been too late. He closed his eyes, fighting back some tears as the last words Sherlock had said to him came into his mind. _John_.

Sherlock had desperately tried to look at John, being in pain, he must have known that he was dying. John didn't care about holding back his tears and emotions anymore when he realised that the last thing Sherlock had wanted to see, even if it had hurt, was _him_.

"Haven't we been through enough already? Look Sherlock, I – I really wish you wouldn't close up so much about everything... Why can't you talk to me, hm? We almost died together, we have survived so many things together. Do you remember chasing this damn cabbie across London? Our first case together? Actually, I must admit that you were the best thing that could have happened to me. Just... coming into my life out of nowhere, changing everything. And then, when you idiot pretended to commit suicide, it just – it just ripped me apart. You were missing. A part of me was missing. I miss you right now as well. Every day. I wake up at night and know exactly that I want to be at 221B, at home.

"And the next thing I know is that you're dying, leaving me once more. I can't let you go, Sherlock. Not again. I just can't. Not without having told you that I love you, that I always have."

John hadn't intended to say the last sentence, but there it was. Something he had carried around with him all the time, never being able to say it out loud. To be honest, it was quite sad that Sherlock most probably didn't even hear his words, and somehow it was also sad that John was able to say them only now. It had felt so terrible to never have told Sherlock the truth when Sherlock had faked his death. John remembered well what his therapist had said then. _The stuff you wanted to say, but never have said. Say it now._

He hadn't been able to say it. Never. Not until now. Somehow the words had just come out, without any difficulties, without any thinking. Slowly John started to understand himself, slowly he finally understood that he had made a mistake. He missed Sherlock and his old life, missed being absolutely happy. He was tired of lying to himself.

"I shouldn't have married Mary, I know. You wanted me to be happy, didn't you?" John smiled sadly. "But let me tell you one thing, even if you aren't listening. The happiest times I had were the moments with you. Even if you can be the most annoying dickhead ever. I'd still choose you if I only had a chance with you. Please, do me one single favour. Just...wake up. Don't die. Don't leave me."

Not even one single word was a lie. But there was Mary. There was the mistake John had made because he had known that he didn't have a chance with Sherlock. Right now, this just felt completely absurd. Sure, he loved Mary, but it wasn't the life that suited him. It wasn't the life he wanted.

The time passed. Sunset. Nightfall. Moonrise. It got quiet.

 _Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._ Just a steady beeping. John got up, pacing through the room and stopping at the window after a while. Down there, on the street, people were driving home from work, going to work, moving, living. They wouldn't know if someone was losing a friend, they wouldn't know if someone was dying in this hospital right now. What did people, strangers, know about each other at all. Then there was Sherlock, who had told John his whole life story a few seconds after they had met. Sherlock was different. Extraordinary. Special. He was a mystery to John, like a puzzle where one had to put together piece after piece to understand the picture. It needed patience.

For Sherlock, John certainly could bring up that patience. He had never doubted Sherlock, even if he couldn't see what was going on in his mind. Where other people started to judge Sherlock, John simply accepted him the way he was.

"John."


End file.
